Amputee
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: "The blade was raised and dropped, quick and simple, slicing through flesh and bone with sickening ease. And then the screaming began." A 'missing scene' ficlet from the first movie; rated T for obvious reasons.


**A/N: I haven't read the How To Train Your Dragon books, but according to Google, Old Wrinkly is the village doctor as well as Hiccup's grandfather on his mother's side...so...yeah. Fans of the books, please correct me if I'm wrong. I'd also ask you to please excuse any typos; I'm uploading this directly from the paper I wrote it on to my iPhone. I'll do some editing once I have access to a computer again. Until then...enjoy.**

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that Stoick the Vast rose slowly to his feet, his only son cradled gently in his arms, and whispered to his best friend:

"Find the medic, Gobber. We have work to do."

* * *

"You'll 'ave to keep your 'old on 'im, Stoick," wizened Old Wrinkly muttered seriously, eyeing the man as if questioning whether or not he was capable. Under any other circumstances, Stoick might have been offended - but not this time. This time, Stoick understood. He wasn't sure if he _could_ do it.

But he did.

He nodded gravely and got to his knees beside his son's makeshift bed of furs and linens, positioned close to the shore of water and the meager fire Gobber was starting a few yards away, much like he'd knelt before the downed Fury not ten minutes before. Said dragon eyed Stoick warily as he lay his arm limply across Hiccup's small torso.

"We've no choice," he mumbled to the beast for the third time, knowing he would be understood. "We're saving his life."

The dragon (Toothless, was it?) gave a sad cross between a whine and a grumble, and buried his large snout beneath his paws to block out the scene to come. As he eyed Old Wrinkly, who seemed to be trying to decide whether or not his chosen swords were sharp enough, Stoick found himself bitterly wishing he could follow the dragon's example.

"Fire's going," Gobber told him quietly as he knelt beside his battle-mate, wincing a bit at the pressure doing so put on his prosthetic foot. Against his better judgement, Stoick found himself staring at both of the man's replacement limbs. Though he'd been there for both incidents - and many others as well - he'd never really given much thought to the idea of wearing a hunk of wood and metal where one's arm or leg should be. He'd never had much reason to. Now, though, the chief of Berk found himself silently fretting. Hiccup had always been clumsy enough on both of his _real_ feet - how was he going to get along, physically as well as mentally, with cold steel where his heel and toes should be? How was he meant to go about his life like normal with the knowledge that such a vital piece of himself was lost forever?

Stoick almost wanted to ask Gobber, but he wasn't sure whether or not he would appreciate an honest response.

"Ye both ready?" Old Wrinkly asked from where he was preparing the second sword, resting the blade against the edge of the fire. Stoick nodded slowly (though he still felt a far cry from ready) and secured his hold on his son's chest. Gobber lay his full-flesh arm across the boy's spindly upper legs, giving the cloth tourniquet one last tug to ensure it was in place. A good five yards away from the scene, the Fury gave a heartfelt cry, pressing his belly flat against the rocks and hiding his face behind his half-tailfin. The other Vikings (waiting in a crowd way up near the pile of rubble that had once been the nest, per Gobber's insistance) began to talk quietly amongst themselves. If there had been any question about what had happened to Hiccup, there certainly was none now.

Old Wrinkly got to his feet and rested the blade in the air above the area where charred flesh met pale pallor, finding the right spot to slice - the blade was raised and dropped, quick and simple, slicing through flesh and bone with sickening ease.

And then the screaming began.

It was as if some unknown deity had suddenly supplied his small slip of a son with incredible force and volume. Hiccup thrashed wildly against his father and unofficial uncle, tears falling from his closed eyes and dripping down his pale face. His horrible screams, blended with the dragon's heartwrenching roars, cut through the icy cold silence of the ruined island. Stoick clenched his teeth so tightly he thought they might break, Gobber gazed at his apprentice in sad, silent understanding, and Old Wrinkly seemed supremely indifferent as he tossed the steel weapon into the sea and went back for the second sword, beginning to glow red-hot where he'd left it out on the outskirts of the fire.

Gathering his son carefully into his arms, and trying hard to look anywhere but at the young new amputee's face, Stoick took a moment to watch the Night Fury that had somehow managed to make itself such an important piece of Hiccup's life. At the sound of his human's severe distress, he'd begun clawing and scraping furiously at the rocky ground. His alert eyes began to blaze with terror when Old Wrinkly pressed the hot blade against the teenager's open wound in an attempt to stave off infection.

"I'm sorry," Stoick whispered into Hiccup's mess of brown locks, just as his tremors began to slow and his agonized screams fade into sharp whines and cries. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry..."

"Stoick." Gobber's hook hand rested as a heavy, sullen reminder on his shoulder. "He'll be alright now; it's over. We just got to sew him up and work on gettin' him home now, that's all. He's fine."

_I know, I know, I know,_ the bearded man wanted to shout, because he _did_ know, but it didn't lessen his pain in the slightest because _this was all his fault. _If he'd only listened, if he hadn't been so pigheaded and foolish, none of this would have ever happened. If he'd just _listened,_ his son would not have had to pay the price for his wrongdoings.

Stoick the Vast realized now, just past too late, that perhaps a Viking was not nearly as strong as he liked to imagine he was.


End file.
